Ruins
by DesertSuns
Summary: Theirs is the blood of the desert, unjustly spilled over the centuries for the glory of the unworthy. They won't stop until they right the wrongs of history... though this might get them into more trouble than anticipated. (Ishvalan Elrics AU)


**Hello, and welcome to Ruins! I noticed that there wasn't much for an Ishvalan AU, and there's even less about the brothers having any sort of connection to their Xerxian heritage (beyond it _existing)_... so I decided to write a little something to stick a band-aid on that particular gaping hole. _A forewarning:_ a lot will be changed about the way things go over the course of this, including a human Alphonse. _A promise:_ I will never forget Al exists, and he will always be an incredibly important part of this story.**

 **Now then, I hope you enjoy!**

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Many people would say that a desert is the opposite of an ocean. To them, oceans are plentiful and teeming with life where deserts are sparse, barren wastelands.

Those people have never spent a night under a desert moon, letting the heat seep out of their skin like water from a natural spring. Those people have never watched the sands shift to erase the hoofprints of hundreds of sheep and camels, or spotted a myriad of small lizards burrowing their way beneath the grains to keep cool. Those people have never danced around the midnight fire, singing praises to unseen benefactors as the wild dogs howl in tandem.

Perhaps, Trisha Elric thought, that was why her people were considered subhuman by so many others. The Amestrians, the Cretans, the Aerugans... to them, the Ishvalan people were sandswept barbarians, religious cultists with unnatural silver-white hair, unusual sun-dark skin, and unsettling blood-red eyes. They didn't bother to learn that the desert race was gifted with hair of silver by Ishvala Herself, as a sign of Her favor. They didn't know that the rich caramel of their skin was a blessing from the Sun, claiming them as Her children. They didn't care that Ishvalans took pride in their eyes, in the blood - the life-water - they resembled.

It was unfortunate, she supposed, but she didn't mind too much. She was used to the pattern, after all.

Every once in awhile, outsiders would stop in the fallen city where Trisha's community made their home. Some would respect their ways and their heritage. They were usually the Xingese; from one honorable and traditional people to another, the respect was strong and mutual.

Usually, though, the strangers would balk at the sight of the ruins' inhabitants. Many would take the offered food, water, and shelter, but would leave as soon as they were rested, and would avoid any unnecessary contact. Some went as far as to leave before they could even get that much. Trisha found herself worrying about those the most.

This was how it had been for as long as she could remember. In fact, it had been that way for longer than Trisha's grandmother's grandmother could remember. It could be assumed that it would continue similarly forever.

Except... it didn't.

It all changed with the man made of gold.

When he arrived, he did so quietly. A single figure in the sands, with nothing but the bag on his back and a battered traveling cloak slung around his shoulders, he was nearly missed by the morning watch. He was mild-mannered, and could even be called awkward or shy. He insisted on staying in the city for only a week or two, and the Ishvalans accepted the words, thinking him to be another simple, albeit kind, traveler.

And then he spoke of the Arts.

This was how Trisha first met him, impossibly golden eyes alight with joy and fascination as he spoke of their wonders. He would start out with uncertainty, quietly insisting that the Arts were more than the evils of alchemy, that they asked instead of taking, working with nature instead of against it. He would grow more animated, more impassioned, telling anyone who happened to be in earshot about how the Arts could heal and fix and grow. And then, as if guilty for his happiness, he would withdraw, but Trisha could still see the dancing flame of his excitement hidden behind glass lenses.

It was the passionate fire in his soul she first fell in love with. After that, it was only a matter of time before she lost herself to admiration. Like a house of cards, it took just one little shift for her restraint to crumble.

From her love for the fire, she noticed the lack of it. She noticed his serene calm as he wrote in his many journals, and the quiet blissful smile that settled on his face when he listened to the prayer songs. Before long, she found herself adoring this side of him just as much as the other.

It was a long time before she noticed what lay beneath the fire and the calm. It took nearly a year - during which he made several attempts to leave again for his travels, but ended up returning to the ruins in a few short days - before she even suspected that the golden man who was quickly becoming hers was much more than a man and much less content than she believed.

It was late at night, on a fallen pillar they made a habit of stargazing from, that he spoke in a tone she had never heard him use before. With eyes still trained to the lights above, Trisha might not believe he had spoken at all if she hadn't heard him so clearly.

"Trisha, my dear, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

She'd smiled at him, though she felt confused and wary. "Tell me what, Van Hohenheim?"

"This was my home, once. A very, very long time ago."

And then he told her everything. He told her about a plot four centuries old, about a red stone of life and death, about the doom of the kingdom whose skeleton her people lived within. She listened to his words, yes, but she also listened to the way he said them. Guilt, grief, and pain dripped from every syllable, blood from an invisible wound.

In time, she came to love this side of him, too: a lonely man filled with unjust self-loathing, someone who felt unworthy of any blessings Ishvala saw fit to bestow. She fell in love with the weakness just as much as she already had with the gentle strength.

Perhaps, Trisha Elric thought, this was the man she would give her name for if the circumstances had been any different. If he was free from his burdens, one day, and took the time to be recognized in the name of Ishvala and Her people, it really could happen.

Until that day, though, she was content to stand by his side. She didn't care about the dishonor it could bring her - if there was any, as Ishvala had already blessed her days with Hohenheim - she found joy and purpose in her place there.

She found more of it when she bore their sons, such small beings to hold the blood of two ancient and powerful desert civilizations in their veins. Edward with his dusty platinum blond hair and his father's piercing golden eyes, Alphonse with the silver hair of Ishvala and eyes of warm bronze... they were children of precious blood, naturally decorated with equally precious metallic colors.

Yes, Trisha Elric decided - standing in the ruins of a fallen time, beside a golden immortal, with her arms filled with the promise of the future - no matter what trials may lie ahead, this desert would be a place blessed with life.

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 **Word Count: 1153**

 **Thank you for reading, more should be on the way soon!**


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